


Scatter and Fade

by inlovewithnight



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, Pete Wentz and His Humans
Genre: M/M, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 16:44:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1192395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gabe tastes like mouthwash over stale whiskey.</p>
<p>Written for Porn Battle XV, prompt "drink."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scatter and Fade

Gabe tastes like mouthwash over stale whiskey. It’s kind of funny that he thinks that’s going to work on Pete, like Pete doesn’t know the difference, like Pete can be fooled.

Not funny ha-ha. Funny goddamn it.

Pete kisses him again anyway, curling his fingers around Gabe’s wrists instead of cussing him out. They only have a couple hours. That’s barely time to get a really good fight started, much less have it and finish it again.

Gabe groans against his mouth, rough and hungry. Pete can’t remember the last time it felt quite like this, rough and _dirty_ , want instead of affection. Hunger, even. Like Gabe wants to eat him up.

The thought makes him shake all the way down to his knees.

Gabe backs him up to the wall, slow and relentless; Pete’s still holding his wrists but he’s not steering, he’s not in charge. Gabe moves him back until he hits the wall, Gabe leans in and covers him with his body and keeps kissing him, over and over, harsh chemical mint and old whiskey in his mouth. Pete sucks at his tongue, like he _wants_ that flavor, even though it’s gross. He wants Gabe. He wants Gabe to know he’s there, he’s all in.

“I’m mad at you,” he whispers between kisses, the words breaking off on a gasp as Gabe boosts him up higher on the wall. “You--”

“Okay,” Gabe says, like it’s not a big deal, like it’s just a fact of the universe. He turns his wrists, Pete’s hands falling away easily, and brings his knee up between Pete’s thighs, pressing against him, grinding slowly.

_I’m mad at you and I love you_ , Pete thinks, his head falling back against the wall, his brain narrowing down and zeroing in on his crotch, his dick held in place by his jeans and pressed back against his body by Gabe’s knee, hard flesh and hard bone and unyielding denim, something in his head is calling it unstoppable force and immovable object but _that_ isn’t right, not exactly, but the feeling behind it is--

Another kiss, bruise-hard and hot and sweet even through the mouthwash and whiskey. Pete’s mouth is flooding with spit and want, he’s grinding down against Gabe in return now, he’s humping at Gabe’s leg like a cat, he’s _whining_ , he can hear himself, a high thin noise even when their mouths are pressed together.

Gabe doesn’t scold him, he soothes him, kisses gentling, palms moving along Pete’s sides and fingers along his back. Long, thin fingers, Pete loves them, loves Gabe’s big broad hands, how his own disappear in them, how they can palm his cheek or his ass when Gabe steers him along, guides him like he knows where they’re going, like he knows how to do this.

(“This” can be anything. How to exist. How to fake it.

Neither of them actually knows.)

Gabe boosts him up again, finding a better angle so he can get his hand down and pop the button on Pete’s jeans, sweet relief and a hot rush of blood to his dick. He takes Pete’s dick out, up over the waistband of his briefs and over top of Gabe’s knee now stretching the denim taut. He rubs the head against his palm, gets it slick with pre-cum and makes Pete make a choking, moaning noise. At least it breaks up the whining.

Gabe touches him, strokes him, wet big hand that’s warm and solid and covers him up. It could take all of him, _Gabe_ could take all of him, could fucking consume him or push inside and tear him up, make him full, break him in pieces--

Pete doesn’t know why thinking about that makes him come so hard, but it does, every time. If Gabe even teases him once, one whisper, about getting his whole hand inside him, even makes one fisting _joke_ , Pete messes up his jeans or Gabe’s hand or Gabe’s t-shirt or Gabe’s face, one time, and they both ended up giggling so hard they choked because they were so fucking high on adrenaline and vodka and Red Bull that they couldn’t keep it together.

Gabe does that to him.

This time it’s Gabe’s hand, and Gabe just wipes it on Pete’s t-shirt, right over his belly, and kisses him again, warm and a little rough again, enough to make Pete’s teeth click together.

“Let me down,” Pete says, his voice hoarser than it should be. He wasn’t yelling, he was holding it all in his throat. Gabe moves back, his hands on Pete’s waist until he’s safely down, then letting go as Pete lets his own knees go, dropping down to the ground and reaching for Gabe’s belt.

“You’re a prince,” Gabe says, the breath of a laugh behind it, but he means it, too. Pete can tell the difference. He flips Gabe off anyway, one hand while the other finishes getting the belt undone and goes for the zipper. His mouth is still watering, anticipation, because Gabe’s dick is so _good_ , so _big_ , it always leaves the corners of his mouth stretched and aching, leaves him feeling it for hours. It’s good, it’s really good, it’s close to what he wants. Close to coming to pieces and disappearing into the air.

Gabe feels good in this mouth, thick and hot, hair scratching against his lips and his nose when he takes him deep enough. He tastes good, too, salty and sour, the dry heat of skin and then the thick fluid at the head when he pulls back to take a breath and lick and center himself, remind himself to open his throat and relax and just go for it, just take it, take it good and easy.

Gabe’s hand rests on the back of his head, palming his skull nicely, fingers scratching and catching in his hair, coaxing. Gabe never pushes down on his head or pulls his hair, just holds him where he wants him. 

He thinks about biting, a little bit, just enough to make Gabe jerk and curse, but instead he presses his tongue against Gabe’s dick, takes him farther in, relishes the stretch at the corners of his mouth and the way it makes tears prickle at his eyes. Not bad tears. _I’m trying so hard_ tears, _I can do this_ tears, _look at this, look at me_ tears.

“Fuck,” Gabe grunts. “Close.”

Pete nods, swallows, looks up at him through his lashes; he loves when Gabe gets close, loves how he flushes and shudders, loves feeling _hot salt thick wet_ flood his mouth before he swallows that, too, and leans against Gabe’s thighs and gets petted and then lifted up and kissed again.

When they get there, Gabe must still have whiskey and mouthwash on his tongue, but Pete can’t taste it at all.

“Still mad at me?” Gabe asks quietly.

Pete leans against Gabe’s chest and shuts his eyes. “A little bit.”

“Okay.” Gabe wraps his arm around him, shutting out everything else, and Pete thinks _okay_ , too, everything is all right.


End file.
